There’s
something about reflecting on a solitary day in our lives and observing how it has
affected those that come after it. Billy Collins describes in his poem “Days” (Sailing Alone Around the Room, 57) how
one day balances precariously on the preceding one. I like the visual metaphor of
the “impossible tower of dishes entertainers used to build on stage” used to
illustrate the dependence of one day on the previous. So I asked my students to think about one
particular day in their lives, one that stands out to them—either because it
was amazing and they’d like to relive it exactly the way it was, or perhaps one
that they’d like to do over like a judgment call of playground four-square—and to
see analyze how that solitary day affect those that followed.
I
remember in high school or up at Ricks College when I would attempt to construct
perfect day scenarios depending on what I was going to do, or the company I
would spend the day with. However, more often than not, those days never really
turned out. Sometimes they were better than expected, but usually none ever
lived up to its expectation. These fabricated days, I realize, were the product
of my imagination, a construct, if you will, of my subconscious, of what I
thought I wanted; and I think that they didn’t materialize due to unrealistic
expectations. These dreams were just the “children of an idle brain, begot of
nothing but vain fantasy” (Romeo andJuliet, I, iv, 106-107). I spent too much time procrastinating my homework
or trying to wax poetic in the frigid Idaho air to really think straight about
my life’s direction. I don’t think I knew what I wanted or who I was really;
hence the ineptness on my part to solidify a perfect day. And–perhaps, just
maybe, my definition of perfect didn’t really exist. I’m sure if I gave it much
thought now, it would be much different than it was over twenty years ago.
One
particular day has wandered in and out of my thoughts this morning. It followed
me into the shower, rode in the passenger seat on the drive to work, and it
keeps poking me in the eye as I thrum the keyboard, hitting the backspace key
more often than any other as I try to capture the entire essence of this piece
of my history.
The
date was January 2, 1998, the day before I was scheduled to leave southern Spain
after twenty-two months and head back to the United States. I was headed back
to my country, but not to the home I knew in Illinois. While I was in Andalucía,
my dad changed occupations and moved to Utah. But because Dad had been in the
military, I was used to moving to different places, and Utah wasn’t going to be
too much different; we had vacationed there many times; Mom’s family lived in
and around the Ogden area.
That
morning after a quick breakfast of a pastry and a Coke, I boarded a chartered
bus and rode the winding carretera for two and a half hours between Granada and
Málaga, seeing parts of the country I hadn’t yet experienced. With most of the
towns we passed through still hung over from New Year celebrations, I was able
to ponder the natural world that swelled around the silent concrete cities and
even more motionless remote pueblos without much human interruption.
The grandeur of
the countryside overwhelmed me. I knew the mountains that would greet me the
next day dwarfed these rolling hills, but the ruggedness and majesty of Sierra
Nevada still gave me reason to ponder the universe, the power of their Creator,
and my small significance in the grand scheme of life. I passed Roman
aqueducts, forgotten to time and progress, and I thought of all the evidences
of civilization’s march I had personally seen in my lifetime: Stonehenge,
Native American burial mounds, coliseums, medieval European castles and cathedrals,
Japanese warlord treasures and temples, to name a few. History unfolded some of
its secrets in my silent reverie on the mostly empty bus, head leaning against
the hard, cold glass.
Alone,
I was able to ponder the last two years of my own personal history and the
effects my existence might mean to Sevilla and its surrounding pueblos, Andújar
and Jaén, Jerez de la Frontera, and Granada. The people and the land had
changed me—of that I was sure—but had I made a difference? A myriad of faces
and places passed through my subconscious until we pulled into the central bus
terminal in Málaga.
From
there, I met up with six other missionaries who were headed home. We bought a
few last-minute souvenirs, grabbed lunch, and caught the train to Fuéngirola,
where the mission office was, and where Presidente López awaited our arrival
for a final interview. The train brought us to the station earlier than we had
anticipated, and left us with time to kill. Some sat and waited. I was restless
and wandered the nearby streets, switching companions every so often—Bremner,
McClaws, Tito, Moulton. No matter who I meandered with, though, the
conversation was the same: what the future might hold.
I
had been accepted to Brigham Young University for the spring term, so I had a
few months to kill before school. Other than that, I had no clue what my future
held. And I think that scared me most of all. My whole life to that point had a
direction and a plan, more or less: graduate from high school, earn an two-year
degree, go on a mission, go back to school. After that remained a mystery.
Trudging the semi-deserted streets of the older, non-beach neighborhoods of Fuéngirola
during mediodía gave ample opportunity to ponder countless possibilities for my
imminent life.
Everything went
well during the interview—received some great advice from a great man, some of which
I might divulge at a later time. If I concentrate hard enough, I can still
retrieve from memory the amazing dinner of arroz con pollo, bread, salad, and
olives and cheese. The after-dinner devotional was overshadowed by the arrival
of Bremner’s parents. They were there to pick him up and tour the mission while
the rest of us were headed out via plane at 5:00 the next morning. I was happy
for him, but felt a little out of place. My reunion with family would have to
wait.
Perhaps the
most vivid memory I have of that reflective day, though, occurred after the
events of the day had calmed down, and we were close to turning in for the
night. The Hermanas had already gone to bed, Bremner had left with his family,
and it was just the four of us—Tito, McClaws, Moulton, and me, chilling on the
edge of the Lopez’s pool on that warmer than normal January night. The lights
of the house and most of the surrounding neighborhood were extinguished, and
the stars showed off their brilliance across the heavens. The Milky Way drew a
little closer if only to enhance the ethereal atmosphere. And honestly, my
thoughts were not of this earth. I silently pondered the eternities as the
other three discussed their future yet again: girls, school, work, but mostly
girls they hoped were still around and available when they got home. I didn’t
point out the fact that those girls would need to be interested in them, too; I
left them to discover that important detail.
I remember in
the quiet of that night, looking up, and knowing, without doubt, that a chapter
of my life was coming to a close. A grander design was in motion, and God
needed me to move on. Many struggle after returning from proselytizing for two
years, but I knew that I would make the adjustment smoothly. I was comforted. I
felt love—a pure love—for the people I was with, the people whom I served, the
people waiting for me a hemisphere away. I smiled despite myself and my
uncertainty regarding the future. I knew that I was going to be okay.
Sooner than I
wished, the other poolside conversation came over to stand next to me at the
edge of the patio, which overlooked an extensive olive grove. “How ‘bout you,
Anson?” someone asked. “What do you
think? How long ‘til you get
married?”
“Wha…?” That caught
me off guard.
They all started
yammering at once, totally throwing off the groove of my introspective solace.
I think there was a little bragging, a little teasing, almost like normal guy
stuff. I don’t know who said what, but bets were placed for each of us settling
down within one year, two years, never. I remember saying out loud that I would
just work until I started school, maybe see about a girlfriend after fall
semester started. I figured that at the earliest I would be married in about
two and a half years, about the time I wanted to graduate. After I chimed in with
my half-hearted comments, the conversation droned on without me, mostly
regarding Tito and his self-proclaimed lady-killing skills. (You should have seen
him trying to flirt with Hermana Young the next day in the airport. Yeah, not
so smooth. I guess he was out of practice.)
The crazy part
is that I recall immediately after those words escaped my lips, I had an
overwhelming sensation that I knew I was lying. Marriage wasn’t several years
down the road; I was going to start my own family within the year. I just knew
it. That was what He had in mind for me. I knew it, and God knew it, and I knew
that He knew I had come to that understanding right there at the edge of the
patio, covered swimming pool behind me, the universe as a witness above me. And
maybe the craziest part of the whole deal was that I was perfectly okay with
that. I felt a peace knowing that whatever lay ahead, part of the plan was set
in motion.
I lay awake the
rest of the night, the thought of who my wife would be haunting me. Did I already
know her? Would we meet after I got home? It chased me the next day as we ran
through the airports of Málaga, Madrid, JFK in New York, Detroit, St. Louis,
and finally Salt Lake City (the closest major airport to where my family
resided).
The reflections
of that day definitely affected the rest of my life. To unfold the rest of the
story briefly, I had already met Amy back in January of 1996. I ran into her
again only a week after I got home. I was down on campus gathering registration
information and happened to run into her in the library (where I had no
business being yet). I invited her to hear my homecoming address the next
Sunday. We went out for the first time a week later on a double date with my
friends Eric and Marisa, who both served with me in Spain. Amy and I became
engaged a couple months later and were married on July 14, 1998—only six months
after my poolside revelation. Over seventeen years and five kids later, things
are only getting better.
So, do our days
stack precariously atop one another, Mr. Collins? Absolutely. I just keep
stacking and keep balancing, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
